


a fish who left her river, a star who left her sky

by Starwardsfrost



Series: a fish who left her river, a star who left her sky [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Canon Divergence - Tourney at Harrenhal, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Ned Stark is a Treasure, Not love at first sight but pretty darn close, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Running Away, Slow Burn, Third Wheels, Tourney at Harrenhal, Unplanned Pregnancy, both of those things simultaneously within the same story, characterization for the disappointingly uncharacterized, getting lost in crowds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starwardsfrost/pseuds/Starwardsfrost
Summary: Ned Stark marries Ashara Dayne at the tourney of Harrenhall and forges an unexpected alliance between the North and Dorne. EVERYONE IS A RECKLESS IDIOT. Catelyn Tully must face the consequences of her actions and make a new life for herself in an unfamiliar land.Future canon era Catelyn Tully/Ned Stark/Ashara Dayne. Much angst. Much fluff.





	1. climbing out a window at the hour of the wolf: wherein Brandon Stark is a scoundrel and a fool and Catelyn Tully makes several choices.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fun little thing I put together out of far to much musing on what ifs. What if instead of only SOME PEOPLE being reckless and stupid during Robert's Rebellion, EVERYONE was a reckless idiot. Could some amount of happiness be achieved? Could Catelyn Tully experience character development? Could some lives be saved? Could the entire concept of "illegitimate children" be proven to be utter nonsense?
> 
> Here we will explore those what ifs.

As she carefully folded her warmest woolen stockings, and the soft linen undergarments, meticulously embroidered by her own hand, she took note of the subtle designs. Here, at the collar of her chemise, was a month of her life, recorded in delicate stitching. _Had the trout learned to fly, or the wolves to swim?_ She wondered. _I guess it doesn’t matter now. What a waste._ But if the sentiment with which she had stitched and sewn until her fingers bled was gone, dead, and useless to her now, the stitches themselves were not. These were good clothes, and she had worked hard to make them. _Perhaps I could find work as a seamstress_ , she supposed it was good, reliable work, indoors with no heavy lifting, and she did have the training.  
It was a fanciful notion, a highborn lady begging for work as a common seamstress, except that it was not.  
She would leave before dawn lest the growing bump beneath her skirts come to the attention of her lord father.  
She had written a note for Lysa, for Edmure, for her father too.  
With her things packed into a sturdy leather satchel, Cat snuck from her rooms and up to the outer wall, where she took a rope and tied it securely around a convenient merlon and repelled down the outer wall. She had never been frightened by heights, as a girl her habit of climbing had driven her septa mad with worry, and this was no different, she thought, than scaling the old redwoods in the godswood.  
From the darkness below the castle walls she heard a watchman call out the hour of the wolf, and she smiled to herself, making her way north by the guiding light of the stars.


	2. at the Tourney of Harrenhall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Catelyn Tully, the girl who climbed out her bedroom window during the night and walked out into a war begins much earlier, with a quiet boy who got lost at a tourney...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the old gods! an update! For real!  
> I hope you like this chapter, I don't think I would be updating this if not for all the comments and support I got on the first chapter and on the cow story. Please let me know what you think in the comments and all that jazz.

When Lord Arryn had told Ned and Robert that they were all going down from the Vale to Harrenhall for the great tourney, Ned had been very excited. He was looking forward to seeing his father, his brothers, and his sister for the first time in many years. It He had not expected anything more than that. What he had not been expecting was the sheer cacophony of what must have been every high lord and their household converging on Harrenhall. Lord Whent, Ned had decided, was insane. Perhaps it had been this godawful castle which had driven the lord mad. With all the melted stone and ruined towers and corridors that seemed to go on forever without end, Ned thought he might be going mad himself. And then there were the tents. Surrounding the ruined castle for leagues in all directions were the tents. In every color imaginable, the tents spread out across the countryside. There must have been twenty thousand horses at the least. 

Ned hated it. There were far too many people, lords and ladies and common folk alike. The royal family was around here somewhere, and while wandering the camps he had seen sigils of what seemed like _every_ Northern house, not to mention the houses of the every other part of Westeros. Even the _Reeds of Greywater Watch_ were here. They never left their swamps for anything, Ned had thought. It seemed he had been wrong. For enough gold, even the crannogmen took an interest. 

Ned thought to himself for perhaps the hundredth time this morning just how much he hated Harrenhall and this bloody Tourney. He had been wandering around for almost an hour now searching for his father, or his siblings, or Lord Arryn, or Robert, or _anyone_ he knew, and despite seeing hundreds of people, he had yet to find a familiar face. Every path he walked down held more brightly colored tents full of fancy southern lords. Perhaps he could ask directions? 

Turning another corner, Ned saw a head of shiny dark hair walking away from him he ran forward, "Lyanna!" he shouted. The woman turned around at the sound of his voice. Ned felt his breath catch in his throat and a blush rise to his cheeks. That was **not** Lyanna.  
The woman he had mistaken for his sister was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. Not that Lyanna wasn't beautiful, but his little sister was beautiful like a running stream, or a tree. This lady was different. She looked at him with violet eyes as wide as a startled deer's and Ned forgot what he was doing. 

"Were you talking to me?" She asked. Ned noticed that this woman was carrying a little girl in her arms who looked to be about two. The child was fast asleep.

"Um. Yes. Sorry. from behind you looked a bit like my sister."

"Lyanna?" She asked.

"Yes. Um. That's her name. Sorry."

"That's a pretty name. What about yours?" 

"I'm Eddard Stark, my lady."

"Oh my. Well then Lord Eddard Stark, I am Ashara Dayne, and this here is Princess Rhaenys, and that man in the white cloak hurrying over here to threaten you is my brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, who doesn't like strange men getting too near the princess."

"Ah. I'll get out of your way then my lady. Sorry again for bothering you." Ned stammered, blushing a vibrant hue.

"Oh no you don't. The least you can do is introduce yourself to him, otherwise he'll worry all day."

"Um. Alright. I guess, my lady."

And without further ado, Ned Stark found himself face to face with Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and Knight of the Kingsguard. He was a handsome man in his white cloak, with his sister's violet eyes and dark hair, but his expression was quite intimidating. Ned found himself quite regretting leaving Lord Arryn's side this morning.

"And who are you?" The Kingsguard asked.

“Eddard Stark, Ser.”

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

“I was searching for my family, and I mistook Lady Ashara here for my sister, Lyanna, for which I apologize.”

“There is no need, my lord.” Ashara cut in with a smile. 

As Princess Elia’s lady in waiting, Ashara Dayne knew all the great houses of the seven kingdoms. She knew of the Starks. Their seat was Winterfell, their words the forbidding “Winter is coming.” Their lord held the title Warden of the North, and controlled nearly half the continent of Westeros. These were the basic facts her Septa had insisted she learn as a child. But in her mind, the North was a land of myth and magic. 

And this young, awkward teenager with a nose face he would hopefully grow into, did not fit with this concept. Not at all. She watched him blush under the scrutiny of the Sword of the Morning, and noticed to some surprise that despite his rather obvious reaction to her beauty, Lord Eddard was obviously more starstruck by her brother. This, she thought, was probably a good sign. Men and boys who admired Arthur were generally the sort who cared deeply about honor. She had noticed how he consciously looked her in the eye when her breasts were, not fully on display or anything, but he hadn't even looked. It wasn't the 'not looking' of a disinterested sword swallower, butt the not looking of a man who knows better. Most men would ogle anything, and her doubly so, for she was Dornish, and therefore most thought she had been a whore from the cradle, and could be stared at openly, with violent lust in her eyes.  
Eddard hadn't done that. It was a mark in his favor at the very least.

Ashara was a courtier, and a lady in waiting to a foreign princess at that. She served under a king who was mad and liked to burn people alive. It was her livelyhood to notice such things.

"You must have quite the sister then, for most do not mistake my sister for anyone." Arthur said with a dangerous look in his eye.

"No-no! I mean yes, my sister is very pretty and all, but it was only from behind, the hair-" Ned searched for words, trying not to gape like a fish, "Ser Arthur, both my sister and yours are very beautiful women, but aside from having long dark hair and being about the same height, they look nothing alike."

"But the back of my head looks like hers?" Ashara teased.

"A bit, my lady."

"Well I can't say I've ever seen the back of my own head before, perhaps you would introduce me to Lady Lyanna, so I might see for myself!"

Arthur Dayne felt a strong urge to unite his palm with his forehead in response to his baby sister's flirting, but he was in company, and wearing full armor as well, so he did not.

"I would love to, however I don't know where she is. Or my father, or my brothers, or even another Northman at this point, I am so very lost right now."

"Then maybe we could help him find his family?" Ashara suggested, turning her big violet puppy dog eyes at Arthur, who was unimpressed. "I should really be getting you two back to the royal pavilion..." he said.

"But I really did want to look around some more." Ashara needled her brother a bit more.

Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and knight of the Kingsguard, gave up. 

"Alright then. Where do you think they would be?"

"I think the Westerlands are camped mostly over that way, he said with a grimace, and the Valemen set up camp over that little hill, and to be perfectly honest I don't really know where I am right now."

"well most of these tents are from houses in the crown lands, and the Royal Pavilion is just a little ways in that direction," she said, pointing away from the castle in a new direction. Ned looked and saw the distinct red and black flags of the Targaryen kings on tall poles, sticking out above the chaotic mess below. "Most of Dorne is here too, and close by, for Elia. She's very excited to see her brother Prince Oberyn in the joust. Let me think..." Ashara spun around in a slow circle. "Perhaps the Northmen camped on the first side of the castle they came to? Which way is north?" She asked. 

Ned replied within a heartbeat. "North is that way." he said, pointing.

"So you do know where you are," Ashara joked.

"That way is home. I would never forget it." Ned replied, in a quiet voice that she found herself wanting to hear more of.

"I understand completely." Arthur said. He never stopped thinking of Dorne. Not once in all these years at court had he not known the route home, back to Starfall, with the sand and the sea and the wind that filled his dreams at night


	3. Harrenhall: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short chapter today... because I am feeling happy.

Arthur Dayne often wondered if the other members of the kingsguard regretted joining the sacred order. Surely Ser Barristan would never wish to be anything but a knight of the kingsguard?

Arthur didn’t always think about this. When small children ran up to him in the streets and gave him wildflowers. When Rhaegar would wax on about the grand future he planned to build. When Elia smiled at him, Arthur knew he had made the right choice. 

Then there were the other days. Days when the Sword of the Morning seethed with anger and frustration as Aerys launched into another tyrade about the savagery of the Dornish. _If we are such savages, why did you marry your son to our Dornish princess?_ Surely the man was mad to see anything wrong with little Princess Rhaenys?  
Days when he would hear Rhaella's screams and see her bruises and feel part of himself dying inside along with her.

But Arthur had sworn an oath, and so yet again he was accompanying his sister as she went about her duty of taking the little sunshine dragon away from His Royalness. Sunshine was asleep as usual, and Arthur was hoping His Majesty would not hurt Elia in the few hours they would be gone. Prince Oberyn was around here somewhere, after all, and even Aerys wasn’t so mad as to provoke a war with his strongest allies, was he?

_But then again, Lord Tywin’s pleasant absence was plenty of proof that Aerys had no problems lashing out at his close allies._

Arthur had been brooding about on this train of thought for some time when he heard a shout in the busy crowd and saw a dark haired young man running toward Ash and Princess Sunshine. He was halfway to them before he’d even fully processed the information.

And while the handsome knight had been bracing himself for an unpleasantness, it turned out that the young man was mostly harmless. 

The boy stood like one trained to fight from a young age, and despite his age, was obviously fit. But he also appeared to have all the political skill of a puppy. It was kind of endearing how easy it was to read this guy. In a matter of mere seconds, Arthur had come to the conclusion that Eddard Stark was half in love with Ashara already, and had probably spent his whole childhood listening to tales of honorable knights and their brave deeds. In other words, the boy was probably as good as one could hope to be. And so he sat through Ashara’s flirtations and went along with her scheme to find his family. It was, out of all the things he had done as kingsguard, not so bad.

Eventually Sunshine woke up and demanded to walk on her own two feet, and Lord Eddard introduced himself with a formal bow. Sunshine, with all the wisdom of her nearly three years, giggled.

Arthur would later remember this as a good day.

The four of them marveled at the sights and walked north through the sea of colored tents. Merchants shouted their wares, knights showed off shining armor and postured themselves before anything in a skirt, and Rhaenys held Ash's hand and his and skipped along with all the joy of a fawn in spring.

Eventually, they did find the Northmen. And Lord Manderly was happy to point his liege's son in the right direction. Rhaenys liked this man too, especially when he gave her a crown of sweet smelling chamomile and heather from a White Harbor flower merchant's stall and called her beautiful. Rhaenys bloomed under such praise, and the white flowers looked very pretty in her dark hair.

Arthur watched his sister as she marveled at the Northmen's camp. The men were tall and muscled and their horses were huge and fluffy. 

Arthur didn't see the appeal, but she was obviously curious.

And at long last, they saw the large white tent with the grey direwolf banners. A man a few years older than Eddard saw them approaching and let out a booming laugh. "Ned!" he yelled, and ran over. "Surely that isn't you?" he asked, with a grin on his face.

"Aye. It's me." Eddard smiled widely and hugged his brother in full view of everyone. 

"I've missed you, brother."

"I've missed you too, Bran."

After a long moment, the brothers stepped back and Lord Eddard went to make introductions. 

Lord Brandon flashed a winning smile at Ash that Arthur didn't appreciate one bit. 

A young woman, perhaps fourteen, came running out of the tent and tackled Eddard gleefully. right on her heels was a boy of ten. They had the same hair as Eddard and Brandon, so must have been the remaining siblings. Arthur supposed, from afar and in the midst of a crowd, viewed from behind, Lyanna Stark did look a fair bit like Ash, though the resemblance stopped there. Lyanna was skinny, for one, and had a nose that looked all together much better on her brothers than on her. Her face was... pretty, but not the kind of pretty that was appreciated at court. Too wild. 

She reminded the knight of half a dozen or so young girls he had known as a child in the Water Gardens. Girls who ran, screaming and naked, and leapt into the pools laughing all the while. girls who climbed the orange trees and bit into the ripe fruit with juice dripping down their chins. He had known many girls like that, when they were all so young and carefree. Elia had been like that. 

It changed the way he thought about the North from that moment on. For Arthur Dayne had not thought he would ever meet anyone like that outside of Dorne. But he was wrong.


	4. Harrenhall: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark spends an unusual amount of time on his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Actually, this one just got really long so I decided to split it up into two, so the next one should be up soon. I might even post tomorrow, since it's pretty much ready to go.
> 
> Sorry for the unpredictable updates, I've been oh so blocked writing this gods cursed Tourney. I have buckets of ideas for things that come after, but first we must progress... to be honest I got so distracted that I wrote something like eighteen years in the future, and y'all are just going to have to wait to see it. And then I wrote a half assed firefly AU that I'll probably never post.

Ned had never been so thankful of Lord Arryn’s endless lessons in etiquette and decorum than he was on that day. It had been a frightfully confusing day full of far too many people and only years of practice in the Eyrie kept him from tripping over his feet and acting like a complete fool in front of his boyhood hero and said hero’s sister. The sister who was, and there really was no other way of putting it, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. His own mother had not been so lovely. 

Speaking to her he had been perfectly aware that he smelled of horse and of the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin under his leather armor.

Yet she had smiled at him, even laughed. 

She had met his siblings, briefly, and Ned had been happy about that, but also nervous. He knew well enough that he was not as charming as Bran or Lya or Ben. But somehow, he had introduced his family to a Princess, a Kingsguard, and the a lady in waiting of the future queen and they had gotten along. Ashara had left, saying, “I hope to see you at the feast tonight,” and Ned must have uttered some reply, but what it was he could not recall. 

Lya would undoubtedly start teasing him about it the moment they were alone.

But Ned Stark had a faint smile on his lips all the same.

The day passed quickly. Father took them all up to the castle, where they presented themselves to Lord Whent as a family and were shown to rooms in one of the many towers. 

Harrenhal was a wretched labyrinth of a place, and made Ned feel lost and ill at ease, but was certainly bustling with hundreds of guests and servants. Lya had to be forced into her nicest gown and have her hair plaited up into some style befitting the daughter of the Warden of the North, Ben had lessons to attend to under Father’s keen eye. 

Brandon got leave to seek out his betrothed, Lady Catelyn Tully, a girl Ned himself had never met. And so it was that Ned spent a pleasant afternoon in his father’s room with Ben, sharpening his weapons, oiling his boots and leather armor, and mending a hole in his second best undershirt. 

Every so often he would help Benjen on an arithmetic problem, but for the most part, Ned sat and worked in companionable silence with two people he had missed very much. 

Father wanted to know that he really had been paying attention to his lessons in the Eyrie, and so quizzed him with sudden questions on this or that as they went about their respective business. 

Lord Stark had a desk set up in the chamber, and it was at this desk that he sat, reading and writing letters with his two young sons nearby.

Eventually, Father was satisfied with their studying, and sent the two off to get dressed for the feast.

Ned spent more time dithering about his hair than he ever had in his life, and Ben teased him about it. He wanted to impress Lady Ashara tonight. She probably wouldn’t even look at him though. She probably had men lining up to dance with her.

In the end, he pulled the top part of his hair back, away from his eyes like he always did and gave up on the whole matter. She probably wouldn’t notice him no matter what he did, and if by some miracle she did, he didn’t want her to choose him because of his hair.

Clad in a grey linen shirt he only ever wore for feasts and his finest doublet, Ned Stark felt out of sorts. But he knew that it was expected of him as a Lord Paramount’s son. Father had explained as much before sending him to the Eyrie so many years ago. _You represent the North, son. You will be the only glimpse of a Northern lord that some of these southerners will ever see in their whole lives. We are as alien to them as the Wildlings north of the Wall are to us. And so you will go down into their lands and you will learn their ways and you will act with such honor and decency that you will be above reproach._ Ned had been terrified then, but his lord father had looked him in the eye like he would to any of his banner men, and it was clear that he expected Ned to succeed. So Ned had put on his bravest face and rode away with Lord Arryn.

Father expected all of them to represent the North in such a way. It was Eddard Stark's role in the world, and he could no more change it than he could stop the oncoming winter. So he shoved his nervousness and his dislike of crowds deep within, and he went out to face the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did ya think? I know no much happens in this chapter, but this sort of quiet tender moment between Ned and Ben and Lord Rickard just felt really important to me. Also, Ned. I love writing him. Teenage Ned is an awkward mess of earnestness and hormones. And I would kill for this kid in a heartbeat.
> 
> As always, kudos are delicious treats and comments are the blood sacrifices that will make the sun rise in the morning and ensure that I keep writing, even on bad days when I have like zero ideas.


	5. Harrenhall: An Economy Unto Itself, Musings On Fashion As Political Statement, and An Unwise Infatuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which not a single named character says anything, and the author gets too caught up in world building to get anything done. Rickard Stark gets more development, sorry, I really didn't mean to this time. He speaks to my soul. Speculation on the purchases of supplies for the Feast should be interpreted as rumors spread by people who don't understand math and have never organized a feast. Princess Elia Targaryen of house Nymeros Martell sees trouble brewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Is it the chapter I thought was coming? No. That will have to wait. Not long, I promise.

When Lord Whent threw a feast, he did so with all the enthusiasm and conviction that he put into a Tourney. It was and event so beyond over the top that even those nobles who had spent their entire adult lives at court, attending royal balls and soirees bedecked in foreign silks and precious jewels, were imressed.

And rightly so, because the opening feast for the Tourney of Harrenhal, as it was, put just about every other such event in a generation to shame. Even the wedding of Prince Rhaegar to Princess Elia, an event of grandiose splendour, did not compare. This was in part due to the fact that Targaryens, powerful and beautiful as they could be, had a flair for the dramatic that did not make for good parties. In three hundred years of Targaryen occupation, Westerosi nobles had been witness to a thousand awkward parties.

Sometimes the awkwardness came in the form of an expectation to sit through the painful recitation of High Valyrian poetry by the reigning monarch or their offspring. In years past, guests of royal feasts had been fed to hungry dragons for the crime of showing inadequate appreciation for subtle metaphor. At other times, it was simply a matter of sitting through dinner while a person who could easily have you beheaded locked lips with his sister over the roast swan. And even the parties which weren't quite as terribly bad as all that could include such horrors as rousing speeches about _Fire and Blood,_ which everyone was expected to cheer for, no matter how uncomfortable they might be.

Lord Whent, therefore, had gone a quite different route. The ale flowed freely. Roaring fires blazed in every hearth in the feasting hall. Every musician in Westeros, and many from Essos besides, had shown up, and there was music and merriment in abundance. He spared no expense to impress everyone with his party-throwing skills.

Such vast amounts of coin had been spent on this event that every smallfolk with anything to sell had come with their wares, and for many miles around the castle they were camped outside with market stalls and booths selling all manner of delightful things. Bakers and cooks sold pies, breads, and fried things on sticks, and merchants sold fine cloths, finer garments, and shining trinkets, and boots, and saddles, and livestock traders had come too, with cattle and sheep and goats and pigs and various fowl. Farmers had carts full of apples and cherries and plums, and even peaches, which they sold at exorbitant prices. 

In the castle itself, it was said that three hundred head of cattle had been butchered and roasted. Five hundred barrels of ale, and that many more of beer. Mead and wine was plentiful too, both Arbor gold and Dornish red vintages. Some ten thousand loaves had been baked for the occasion. 

And there were so many guests that it was for good reason that so much food had been prepared. Each guest arrived for the night's feast in their finery. The hall of a hundred hearths was awash in bright colors lit by grand chandeliers. Ladies gowns made them seem like so many flowers or exotic birds. One man thought to himself that it was as if the great windows of the Sept of Baelor had been shattered, and each shard of colored glass had been brought to life.

But for all the splendour of the night, certain faces drew attention like moths to a flame. Cersei Lannister blazed in the firelight. Her hair fell down her back like liquid gold and her scarlet gown clung to her. Princess Elia, wrapped in shadowy Dornish silk in Targaryen shades and black and deep red was certainly lovely, but at the age of twenty six, she did not do the things that captivate men. She did not smile at them, and her eyes were perceptive, sharp, wary from her seat at the high table. She watched constantly her goodfather, the king, and her daughter Rhaenys. Perhaps she was just as beautiful as any other lady in the room, but Elia was a woman, not a girl, and her mind was on other matters. In these lands north of the Dornish marches, a sharp mind had never been seen as a mark of great beauty.

Or perhaps it was not that it at all. Perhaps it was the fact that a second child, possibly even a future king, was evidently growing within her womb, and while this was worth noting to every guest in attendance, it also did something strange to their minds, eyes slid past her and she became a part of the furniture.

So it was that many of the guests looked away from the royal party, and turned their gazes towards the surprising beauty seated beside the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. Lyanna Stark wore a gown of white Braavosi silk, pleated in the northern style. It moved as softly as a snowfall. 

The dress itself, like many of the gowns of noble ladies, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The design incorporated both fine silks imported from Braavos, a city whose trade was vital to the Northern economy, and the finest northern linen, which was usually known for its durability. But in this case, the fibers had been spun so finely that even with its tight weave, the cloth was half transparent. Most people who looked at it assumed it was silk, but they were wrong.

Unlike most gowns at the feast, this one had been designed with almost no input from the one who would wear it. Lyanna could not have cared less if she tried. Like every other gown she had ever been forced into, she knew that this one would be monochromatic, and she would have to be careful about how she walked, how she sat, and her every moment she would have to be careful not to ruin it, lest her father make that disappointed face one more time.

It was her father who had given a small army of seamstresses a small fortune to create such a lovely gown. It was Lord Rickard Stark who approved the sketch of a pack of direwolves running through snow, to be stitched in silver threads on the shining white braavosi silk of the jacket. It was by his instruction that they pushed the very limits of their skill to bring the creatures to life. Silver eyes made of glass beads and sharp white teeth bared in silent snarls.

Unlike southern lords, whose daughters were expected to have many fine silken gowns as a sign of their status, northern lords were expected to remain somewhat frugal, as spending excessive amounts on a gown for their daughter or wife would lose them the respect of their banner men. As such, Northern nobility dressed in finely made garments, and of high quality materials, but in simple designs. Dresses worn by noblewomen of the far north were sewn of squares and rectangles, with quite a lot of draping, so that not a single scrap of material went to waste. This was a matter of cultural significance. It was one thing to have full coffers and a well stocked keep. It was quite another thing entirely to be seen as wasteful. Any wealth amassed in the North was expected to be saved in case of emergency, or else thoughtfully invested in public works.

The North was a hard land, after all, a lord who could not plan and budget, a lord who did not handle his finances wisely, was no lord at all.

However, Lyanna’s gown was an investment. It was a political statement. It served to show the nobility of the south that Rickard Stark had power and wealth, and was no pauper-lord of a barren wasteland. It was made of fine materials which exemplified both Northern industry and Northern trade. It was made in the Northern style, which made Lyanna Stark stand out like a white raven in a flock of crows.

If she were inclined to tell the truth, she might admit it was the most beautiful gown she had ever worn, and that the way it felt when she spun in it was quite as thrilling as riding Winter, her beloved and sure-footed horse.

The wide sleeves of the silk jacket felt so nice against her skin that she never wanted to take it off. The skirt was made of hundreds of crisp knife pleats, pressed with hot iron into linen so fine she could see right through it. With so many layered pleats, however, there was nothing to see, and she felt as if she were wrapped in obscuring mist. For she was, despite the finery, clad as modestly as could be. The neckline on her gown was high, cutting a line straight from shoulder to shoulder, barely hinting at a collarbone. The wide sleeves of her jacket showed nothing of the smooth muscles of her arms. Even her thin wrists were still covered by soft undersleeves. The skirt fell only a scant inch above the floor. No skin was bare but her face and hands, and only the wide silk sash at her waist revealed a hint of her trim figure. 

She was as beautiful and as mysterious as a snow covered landscape on a clear winter’s night. A perfect noble lady.

Lyanna Stark, however, hated having to be a beautiful noble lady with all of her young heart. She would not have admitted that, as boring as white and grey gowns could be, at least it wasn't the godawful Baratheon yellow her father still hoped she would one day wear. She would not have said that the white teeth of the silver wolves embroidered across the back of her white silk jacket made her feel both safe and fierce in a way she didn’t quite have words to describe. 

It was quite a pity that as much as Lyanna Stark hated being a noble lady, she was quite naturally gifted at it. She moved through life with all the confidence of one who has never gone hungry, never been treated unkindly, and never been cold without the promise of a hot bath to come after. And she was beautiful, no matter how little she cared.

Because of this, she drew a great deal of attention. But she was a girl of fifteen, and so she paid it no mind, and when the tables were pushed aside for the dancing, she did so with glee. 

From the high table, Princess Elia Targaryen of House Martell watched the girl on whom her husband's eyes had been glued for some minutes. Lyanna Stark was laughing at something with her brothers, and Elia was hoping desperately that this girl would never even know that a prince had noticed her. 

Sitting there at the high table, with her young daughter on her lap and another child swelling within her womb, her goodfather muttering to himself a few chairs over, she carefully watched the evening unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! Next chapter up soon, but as always, Comments and Kudos will make sure the sun rises tomorrow morning!


	6. Motivations behind a dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark dances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! an update?   
> Yes! It's really happening!   
> This chapter got delayed a lot as I dithered over large-scale, story-arc changes. And I think I am going to try it out. We shall see where this goes...

Ned had to admit, Lord Whent threw a good party. There was food aplenty, and drink flowed like rivers. The common folk outside ate nearly as well tonight, if not as richly. People seemed happy, which was good. However, Ned was so nervous that it mostly went right over his head. Afterall, he'd promised to speak to Ashara again tonight, and from her place beside the princess, he would have to approach her.

But soon enough Lord Whent called for the music to play and the tables were moved to the edges of the great hall so that a space was cleared for dancing. Robert immediately asked Lyanna for a dance, and while she had been lukewarm about the Lord of Storm's End, she had always been thrilled about dancing. And Brandon was expected to ask his betrothed as well, at least for the first dance, so Ned escaped his family and made his way towards the girl he couldn't stop thinking about.

She was dancing with Ser Barristan Selmy when he finally found her. His palms were sweaty but his honor was at stake, he had to at least say hello. She was radiant in layers of purple silk as thin as fog. Her skirts swirled out in a turn and her smile was bright as the rising sun. Ned was nervous, but wolves are brave, so he stepped up as soon as the minstrels ended their song.

"My lady, would you do me the honor of a dance? With me, I mean?" He stumbled at the last part, but just as he was cursing himself, she turned her dazzling smile on him and exclaimed "Lord Eddard!"

"Lady Ashara," Ned blushed, "would you like to dance with me?"

"I most surely would," she said. She had, in fact, been hoping he would find her again. "Do you know the steps?" she asked him.

"My Lord Father would not have brought me here before the king if I did not." Lord Eddard said jokingly. Perhaps he had had too much to drink. It was not in his nature to jape, and certainly not about father.

"Well then, Lord Eddard, show me your moves." 

\---

Eddard Stark, as a rule, did not dance. 

It was expected of him, as a young nobleman, to know all the steps and to be able to move about a dance floor with some proficiency. As in all things, he had not disappointed his father. He had learned all the steps as a child. Minstrels and bards were hard to come by in the North, so he had been instructed by his mother to the beat of a small drum. He remembered even now in perfect clarity how she had held his hands and guided him through the steps. Her long dark hair had been braided into a single, fat coil, and it whirled away from her when she spun. He remembers his mother spinning and laughing, with the dimples in her cheeks showing and brightness in her dark eyes. He tries not to remember her screams at Benjen’s birth, or how she looked after, cold and still. 

Mother taught him all the steps, and how to feel the beat of a song, and move with it with fluidity and grace. But Ned has not felt the slightest inclination to do so in all the years since her death. 

But tonight is special. He can feel it in the smoky air, an itching under his skin, urging him to be bold, and to see if he can make this lady smile. Everyone has always said that 

Brandon got all the looks and charm in the family. 

But Ned is beginning to question the truth of that. He has never actually tried to talk to a girl before, not like this, so he can’t know for sure until he tries.

As she took his hand, he felt something akin to sunshine blossom in his heart. 

\---

Ashara was more than pleased that the shy Northern lord was not at all bad at dancing. He was precise about where he put his feet, and she could tell from the way they moved together that he was fit and strong. This song was merry, and her skirts spun out on each turn exactly as they had been designed to do. She felt as light as air, giddy on the combination of music and light and the glass of mead she had sipped with dinner. 

It wasn’t like her to take a liking to anyone so quickly.

Ashara was a lady of the royal court, and quite a skillful one at that. She had dedicated her life to becoming a very particular sort of woman. 

To put it mildly, Lady Ashara Dayne had spent years learning just how to be the most mysterious, beautiful, and utterly captivating woman in any room she could care to enter. She kept up a very careful persona, one which walked a fine line between Dornish sensuality and complete unattainability.

This was because, behind the mask, Ashara Dayne was a loyal and honorable woman who would do anything for her beloved princess. This devotion to Princess Elia was her guiding   
light in all things.

And what her princess had needed of her, was a spy.

In the court of the Targaryens, Elia was an outsider, trusted by no one and assumed to be somewhat stupid in the way all women were. She was married to the crown price, but out of favor with King Aerys, and thus in a very precarious position.

Thus it had been almost a necessity that Elia find herself a loyal and trustworthy spy.

And she had found one in the form of Ashara Dayne, sent by her father to wait on Dorne’s beloved future queen. 

Elia remembered little Ashara from their shared childhood in the water gardens as the most charming little she-demon she had ever had the good fortune to meet.

They had first been introduced when Elia was thirteen and Ashara was four.

Elia had been skeptical, and Ashara disinterested, until Elia showed the toddler where the blood peach tree stood in the water gardens, where the fruit laden branches hung so far down even she could pick her own. This secured her loyalty for life. This was only strengthened by time.

If anyone took the time to ask Ashara, she would say that she could not remember a time when she did not love Elia as an extension of her own self. It would be easy to say they were like sisters, but it would be insufficient. It was only Elia’s position as wife of the crown prince and her respect of the young lady Dayne’s tender age that kept the two from becoming lovers.

It is important to understand this, because to understand Ashara Dayne, one must first understand that her public persona at court and her inner self had almost nothing in common.

She held these two halves of herself: the cunning liar and the guileless young girl, together by ropes of love and loyalty. Only her stubbornness kept the two sides from tearing her apart.

But tonight, she was dancing with a young man, and as much as she might have wanted to lie and say it was for political reasons, she knew perfectly well that it was only because she wanted to.

Lord Eddard was good looking and she liked him almost instantly. It made her wary, but not enough to stop her from leaning into his touch.

He did not say much, but Ashara found herself still charmed by his inscrutable grey eyes and his strong arms around her. She could tell he was nervous, but he was hiding it gracefully. 

She liked that she could tell how uncomfortable he was. He was not a practiced liar like most noblemen she knew. After so many years at court, she did her best to not let it show how much that moved her. She smiled, because she was young and joyful and why wouldn't she?

She spun and stepped through each twirl and it was completely and utterly thoughtless. 

By the end of the song, they were both a bit breathless and giddy. 

“Have to admit, I didn’t think you’d be so good at that.” Ashara chuckled.

“So you think I’m good?”

“Very. Which is why I’m bursting with curiosity about all the shocked faces looking at the two of us.” Indeed, there were many shocked faces. Every Vale man she could see was looking at her, and her partner, like they’d seen a mirage. She could see one man resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

She didn’t know many of the Northmen, or their ladies, but there was a cluster of older women in fashions reminiscent of Lady Lyanna Stark’s gown, and they were looking over their shoulders and giggling. 

Lord Eddard looked around, and upon seeing their audience, blushed spectacularly.

“Er… I guess… do you know how in stories, a villainous character has to be completely, terribly, irrefutably evil, so that the hero can be seen by contrast as fair and just?”

“Yes?”

“Well, its about contrast. Maybe if there wasn’t this terrible outlaw pillaging villages and harassing the small folk, nobody would have ever looked twice at the person who ends up fighting him. In the North, the best example I can think of is the rivalry between the Boltons and the Starks. My family has the absolute loyalty of our people, even though for the most part, we are terribly boring leaders. For hundreds of years, the most interesting thing anyone in the history books can say about us is that we have been frugal spenders.”

Lady Ashara Dayne looked at him, hoping desperately that he wasn’t about to pull her into a discussion of economic policy.

“But the reason the people love us is because for hundreds of years our main rivals were the Boltons, who liked to skin people alive.”

“Ah. So by comparison, the somewhat boring family interested in economic policy seems downright heroic.”

“Yes. Now of course that doesn’t mean we didn’t at one point ride into battle on giant direwolves, like something out of a song. We did have to fight quite a bit to win absolute power in the North. But it was far easier for the people to love us when the Boltons were so bloody terrifying.”

“That makes sense. Now what does that have to do with you and I dancing?”

“Contrast is important. And for the last ten years, I have been the closest companion of Lord Robert Baratheon, the most maddening skirt chaser ever to set foot in the Vale. The rumor is I’m made of stone.” He chuckled, blushing again.

Now she understood. “And clearly, such rumors were false?”

“To be fair, I haven’t danced at a feast in years.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Because I like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos make me smile and comments are the blood sacrifices that make the sun rise in the morning.


	7. The Princess Elia of Dorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many introductions...

As the minstrels began another song, Ashara spoke, "I think I should like to introduce you to my Princess."

"Indeed?"

"I think it best."

"Then I will follow your lead, my lady."

She took his hand and they made their way over to the group of Dornish, who had claimed an area of the vast room all to themselves. All was centered around Elia, who had opted to sit with her infant daughter instead of dance. At her side was her dashing brother, Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell. On her other side was Ser Arthur Dayne of the kingsguard, who was watchful, distracted.

Ned had never met either of the Martell siblings, but they could hardly be mistaken for anyone else. Prince Oberyn stood proud in bright yellow and orange silks, adorned with bright and shining suns. And Elia wore her husband's colors, red and black, which suited her poorly, but clearly marked her as Targaryen for all to see. Being not in the least bit blonde, pale, or violet eyed, there was no question of her identity. 

At first glance, Ned noticed how like her brother she looked. It was like watching Brandon and Lyanna through the warped, tinted glass of a sept's windows. Two people, cut from the same mold. Neither was particularly tall, as dornishmen tended to be rather short, and each was identical in their bronze skin, black hair, and sharp black eyes.

Ned had heard talk of Elia Martell. Rumours described her as sad and sickly. But his first imression of her contradicted this entirely. He saw a fine boned lady with slender wrists whose face had been built for the smile it wore.

She was laughing, and he couldn't hear what the joke had been, but Lady Ashara looked back towards him with a grin. 

"My princess! I am so happy to see you!" Ashara exclaimed, rushing to her side. "I must introduce my newest acquaintance, Lord Eddard Stark." She said with a dramatic flourish. The whole effect, while it should have been of pompousness and affectation, was one of giddyness and honest affection, clear from their beaming smiles. 

Ned blushed under the sudden scrutiny, but managed a courteous bow that would have made his mother proud.  
"Your highness,"

"A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." Elia held out a hand. He kissed it perfunctorily, and she continued. "Why, my lord, you _are_ far from home."

"But not as far as some, Princess. Lord Jon Umber should be around here somewhere. And if I recall my geography lessons correctly, Dorne is equally distant, is it not?"

"That it is. Though aside from my dear brother, most of us travelled the far shorter distance from Kings Landing."

"Ah, yes." Lord Eddard paused. "I hear it's quite… lively there." 

"That's one way to put it," said Prince Oberyn, condescension dripping from his voice. Princess Elia looked like she wanted to argue, but couldn't. 

Instead, she smiled curteously, "And this is my brother, Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell." 

There was something enchanting about the way she spoke. The pitch of her voice was low, for a woman, and her accent pronounced. 

Where she was refined, her brother was wild. Ned wasn't good with people, but even he could see it plainly. If Oberyn Martell had been a Stark, Old Nan would have called him wolf-blooded. Ned wondered if they had a word for that in Dorne.  
Oberyn’s eyes traced slowly him from head to toe. A wicked grin slid across his face, and he held out his hand. Ned gave it a firm shake, which was returned in kind. 

“I wonder, is this the Northman my lovely niece spoke of meeting this morning?” The man asked.

Ned spun internally for a moment before he remembered the little princess Rhaenys. “Ah, yes. I hope she had only nice things to say about me.”

“Of course. Had she anything bad to say about you, Stark, you would be a dead man.” Oberyn stated. His tone suggested this was a joke, but his eyes revealed the truth of his statements. Ned was watching the Dornish prince’s face so closely that he missed the way Ser Arthur Dayne nodded in agreement.

Ned figured that a man ought to be kind towards small children anyways, and decided that he could tolerate this mans recklessness if his reasons were sensible. Rhaenys was a sweet child. She deserved fierce protectors.

He didn’t quite smile, but his eyes crinkled as he nodded, and both Ashara and Elia took note of it. Elia would have let out a sigh of relief, had her manners not prevented it. Any strange noble who was not offended by Oberyn’s sharp tongue was good, in her books.

Elia spoke up when it became clear that this young man from the North had clearly used up his entire supply of small talk. She was briefly aware of a chasm of difference between them. _What a novelty,_ she thought, _to reach adulthood and not know the arts of conversation._ Fortunately, such things could be learned.

She chose the easiest way, asking him if he planned to compete in the tourney. Men were always eager to voice their opinions on fighting, and Eddard Stark was no different. 

“No, your highness.”

Oberyn took the bait. “And why is that, Stark?”

“There's a saying among the Braavosi traders we sometimes get in the North, _a man who doesn't know what he is fighting is half dead already._ I think that's too good of an advantage to give up for fame and glory.”

"Do you think yourself surrounded by enemies?" Elia asked.

“Should I?” Eddard japed, smiling just the slightest bit. 

“Of course not!” Ashara yelped without thinking. Realizing her mistake, her eyes flew wide and she laughed a loud. “You- you’re japing!” She glared at him in mock outrage.

Elia, Arthur, and Oberyn stared. Eddard swept into a dramatic bow, “My sincere apologies my Lady. I did not mean to offend you so.” He said quietly, kissing her hand. It should have been too much. It should have been ridiculous. Internally, Ned was convinced he had never looked so ridiculous in his life. Ser Arthur was embarrassed by proxy.

But Ashara, Ashara was seventeen and half in love already with a boy she barely knew. Eddard Stark was sweet and she felt safe with him in a way she seldom felt at all these days. And every time he smiled she felt like she was unlocking a secret treasure. So Ashara stopped glaring in an instant and held his hand in hers for a long moment, saying nothing out loud but revealing everything in her lovesick expression.

Oberyn watched them, watching each other, and decided there was nothing he wanted to avoid so much as standing witness to a girl he thought of as little sister giggling over a pretty boy from a frozen wasteland. Seeing no other alternatives, he grasped on the one thing that might distract the Stark boy from Ash. Fighting.

With every last bit of his charm, Oberyn Martell convinced the Stark to meet him the next morning at dawn to spar. Arthur helped with the convincing, but later claimed he couldn’t possibly join them as he had promised to help Rhaegar with something or other. Ashara turned her wide violet eyes on Elia, just about begging to go along, and the Princess smiled tiredly.

“You may have the morning off, my dear, as long as you find a lady of good reputation to chaperone.”

Ashara looked crushed. Of course it would not be appropriate for an unwed noblewoman to meet with strange men at dawn. And like it or not, a Dornishman and a Northman were just foreign enough that the rumours could ruin her. Never mind that watching a sparring match was completely innocent, no one would believe it.

“My sister might be willing.” Eddard suggested. “I could ask her.”

“Really?” 

“Why not? She would love an excuse to miss her lessons.”

“Then we must ask her before the night is over.” Ashara said, her mind made up. Plans made, Elia was just thinking to ask a few questions about goings-on in the Vale when a large young man in Baratheon colors saw Stark and greeted them loudly and boisterously. He was built like an oak tree, dressed like a bumblebee, and had a handsome face, with bright blue eyes and perfect teeth and a strong jawline.

Elia had to fight the urge to recoil from the man, he was just _too much._ He had thrown an arm around Lord Eddard’s shoulder, and was clearly well on his way to drunk. 

“Ned! Your sister… is amazing!” the loud man yelled. "I think I love her already!"

Lord Eddard, or “Ned” apparently, just raised an eyebrow.

“Oh! Right, sorry, hello Ned, Ned’s new friends, wait…new friends?” he looked at Stark disbelievingly. Stark just gave him a _look._ Something near perfect blankness, but hiding depths of amused judgement. There was an ease to the expression that implied it was one often worn.

“I am Lord Robert Baratheon, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The new man said with a bright and stunning smile and a bow.

She wondered what terrible nickname Oberyn was no doubt coming up with in this very moment. She made a mental note to ask him about it later.

Stark managed to introduce each of them with perfect courtesy, and Ashara wondered how many hours his tutors had spent drilling this etiquette into him as a young boy. 

Robert Baratheon turned out to be charming and confident in a way that grated at both ladies. Elia had to wonder how this man could possibly be related to her studious and soft spoken Rhaegar. 

Irritating and loud as he might have been, Elia realized that she would have paid good money to see him shirtless, if such a thing was ever allowed. He was just…so _muscular_. And tall. Truly, it was a shame that he was a Baratheon and not a common laborer. Black velvet and golden silks did him no good at all, such a man was meant to be appreciated glistening with sweat under a hot summer sky. 

Unfortunately, the man was an arse and an idiot. He was a fool, coasting along on nothing but good looks, pretty muscles, and, Elia mused, all the power of the Stormlands at his command.

Eventually, both Baratheon and Stark left, taking Lady Ashara with them. Rhaenys grew impatient and overwhelmed by the festivities, and Elia made the decision to take her to bed early rather than risk a tantrum in front of the King.

She therefore missed entirely the events that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long hiatus, here it is: a new chapter, just in time for Christmas. 
> 
> As always, kudos warm my heart and comments are the blood sacrifices that make sure the sun rises in the morning.


	8. In which a tragedy begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few words on what Lyanna has been up to.

It was a wild night, unseasonably warm, and the nobility of Westeros had all gathered under one roof and proceeded to drink more than was typically considered wise. So while Lord Stark’s second son was busy falling in love, plenty happened of which he was unaware.

Much of the excitement was inconsequential, the sparkling indulgences of the wealthy and irresponsible. 

The Tyrells, for example, snuck into the kitchens in the excitement and conceived their second son in a cellar full of root vegetables. For the rest of her life, Lady Alerie would blush at the sight of turnips. Luckily for her, she was the lady of Highgarden and thus she had no reason whatsoever to deal with anything as vulgar as a turnip.

These frivolities were shrugged off and forgotten as the sun rose the next day. But no two dalliances are quite the same, and one young drunk fool was the Crown Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen.

He had always been one for the reading of prophecies, and at some point, deep in his books, the man had decided that the “prince who was promised” must have northern blood, Stark blood. 

A sane individual and a clever politician would have waited for a few years and betrothed his daughter Rhaenys to Brandon Stark’s firstborn son. But Rhaegar was not, in fact, a sane man. He was a man with delusions of grandeur.

Lady Lyanna Stark was a vision in white silk that night. On that, everyone agreed. She was not so beautiful as the Star of Dorne, but she _was_ lovely. And when the prince saw her, he did not see the sharp teeth of the wolves in her shining gown. He took no notice of the strength of her family, three brothers and a father watching sternly. He did not think of how she was betrothed to his cousin.

He looked at her and saw the Maiden reborn, and all in white she was a princess of snow and ice. And after taking one look at her, he made the worst decision of his life.

He asked her to dance.

She said yes.

They spun about the hall, one silver haired prince clad in sharp black and glimmering rubies, one raven haired maiden in ten thousand white gossamer pleats. He was polite, and she was fascinated by his soft hands and slender fingers. She had never known a man with hands like that.

But after the dance was over, she went back to her family. 

She went back to her betrothed, thinking nothing of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sometimes a single chapter takes months, and sometimes it's ready in an hour and i just want to get the story moving. more to come very soon, I just cut this short for pacing reasons.
> 
> As always, kudos warm my heart and comments make the sun rise in the morning.


	9. In which Lyanna Stark is desperate for a confidant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! We find out what Lyanna has been up to...

When Lyanna ran from the hall an hour later, she might’ve found a quiet place to herself under the stars. She might’ve happened across her brother Ned and Lady Ashara Dayne, who were stumbling about in the dark looking for the godswood after Ashara let slip that she had never seen a real weirwood heart tree before. She might have found Catelyn and Lysa Tully arguing over what was and was not appropriate to do with one’s betrothed. She might have found Ser Barristan the Bold returning to his post after taking a break to piss.

She might have found Prince Oberyn Martell throwing knives at a tree with surprising accuracy as he grappled with his complete inability to protect his elder sister from her smarmy husband.

Had she met any of those people, stumbled across any one of those private moments in the crowded dark, this story might have gone quite differently.

Unfortunately, she did not. 

Instead, she happened upon an ethereal figure bathed in moonlight, playing a harp. She stood for some time, transfixed by the beauty of it, and forgot what had sent her running away into the dark in the first place, stifling hot tears and wondering if she could find her beloved horse, Winter, and set out for home before anyone noticed.

She could not see their face in the darkness, only pale hair gleaming brightly, but the song she heard clearly, even if she did not recognize it. Then he turned his head, and she saw the shape of his elegant nose in profile, and she knew at once.

 _It’s like something out of a song._ she thought. _Meeting a dragon prince under the stars._

But then a the slightest breeze ruffled the thin layers of her pleated gown, and it made a noise, and the dragon prince was looking right at her with his startlingly purple eyes.

She stared at him, frozen to the spot like a wild animal suddenly aware it isn’t alone. “Hello my lady.” He said, smiling gently. To her great dismay, she blushed scarlet. 

It was a horrible thing to be fifteen, she thought. She missed the days of her childhood, when Mother was still alive and Father would carry her on his shoulders and smile and call her his little snowflake. She knew with complete certainty that her home was Winterfell, the best castle in Westeros. Each new day brought the growing realization that very soon, no matter how she felt about it, she would have to leave. 

She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to be sent away like Ned to live in some cold castle in the stupid South. She certainly didn’t want to marry stupid Robert Baratheon with his stupid muscles and his stupid castle and his stupid bastard daughter Mya Stone. 

_He dotes on her._

_She just turned three and he dotes on her._

She had been minding her own business, hoping to snag a berry tart before Father could say no. Stupid white dress was near impossible to keep clean, especially at a feast like this, where men were spilling food and ale wherever they liked and dogs ran about underfoot searching for scraps.

Even worse were the shoes. 

Thankfully they didn’t have the heels some southern lords and ladies preferred. She had no idea how anyone could walk in those things, and Father had scoffed at the very thought when his inquiring letter about southern fashions had mentioned that.

Father had done much the same with most of the contents of that letter. 

Unfortunately, he had picked settled on tiny slippers made of white calfskin and covered in shiny white braavosi silk. They were incredibly comfortable, yet the white silk attracted dirt like nothing else.

There she was, trying to be inconspicuous with her stolen treat, when a pretty blonde in a sapphire gown with an adorable blue eyed toddler on her hip had complimented an older Vale lady’s gown and started up a conversation. Lyanna had winked at the little girl, about Princess Rhaenys’s age, who had giggled, and somehow Lyanna had been ensnared. The girl had fussed until her mother set her down to continue her conversation, and then Lyanna had a small child staring up at her with enormous blue eyes and a look of intense curiosity. 

She had offered the girl a berry tart from the table and the girl had reached for it with chubby fingers.

She was just imagining what it might be like to have a child like this of her own, with dark hair and rosy cheeks. But then the little girl’s mother, barely older than Ned, said something that caught Lya’s attention.

“He’s been fostered in the Vale so long, most of us have no idea what our liege lord is even like.”

“Don’t fret my lady, the Baratheon boy is a good lad. Not the sharpest fellow, but he’s hardworking and honest and he has a good heart.” said one woman.

“But what about the drinking and the gambling and the fighting and the girls?” asked another. “My husband says the lad is just as much of an avalanche in his personal life as he is in the training yard.”

“So he’s a bit of a skirt chaser,” the first woman said. “What’s the harm? The Stark lad keeps him out of trouble easily enough.”

“Easily enough?” the second woman scoffed. “His bastard girl Mya just turned three!”

“But he dotes on her. He’s a good father.” shot back the other woman confidently.

The blonde from the Stormlands was looking scandalized at this point. “Oh my.” she gasped, holding a hand to her mouth with wide eyes 

“You can’t expect the Stark boy to be minding him all his days, either, he’ll want to start a family of his own eventually.” 

“He might.” said the woman who seemed to be giving Robert the benefit of the doubt. “Isn’t his sister betrothed to young Robert?”

Lyanna stood frozen. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and the ladies kept talking as if her whole _life_ didn’t hang in the balance.

“And what, he’s supposed to go with his sister and be her protector?”

“Why not? The boys are inseparable.” asked the optimist.

“I suppose so.” conceded the pessimist.

Lyanna had run from the room. She felt like she was going to be sick. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to talk to Ned. She wanted to ride home tonight and never look back.

And here was Prince Rhaegar, sitting around being otherworldly and beautiful and nice when he had no right to be, leaning against a tree laden with sweet smelling blossoms and playing a harp.

“Um, sorry I-I didn’t mean to overhear or anything, gods I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, but I was just trying to get some air and…” she stammered.

“You seem upset, my lady, is everything alright?”

“It’s fine.” She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingernails into her palms. Letting out a breath, she looked him in the eye. “No. It’s not, and I shouldn’t be telling anyone this, least of all you, but there’s not a thing I can do about any of it and I haven’t the slightest notion where to find the godswood in this horrible labyrinth of a castle and if I don’t talk to someone soon I might just die.” She said in one pause-less breath.

“What is the matter?” Rhaegar asked.

“What do you think?” she spat. “I’m highborn, I’m fifteen, I’m a girl. My father wants me to marry a drunken fool and I think that might be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“Only every day for two years.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to marry him.”

“You want to marry for love.”

Lyanna shrugged. “I guess. I don’t want to marry at all really, but I suppose if it was for love I could bear it.”

“You don’t want children of your own?” 

She sighed. “Sometimes I think- well, I see mothers with little ones of their own, and I- I can’t help it. Babies are sweet. I see myself teaching my own child how to ride a horse, or climb trees, or swim… but my mother died in childbirth. I don’t have any reason to think that won’t happen to me.”

“What makes you so certain?”  
“I think you have some fundamental misconceptions about how time works, your highness. I am not certain. All I know is that ever since I watched my mother die in front of me I have dreamt of the same happening to me. There is nothing unnatural about that.” Her voice turned crisp then, a woman’s voice, brittle as refrozen snow.

“You don’t believe in dreams?”

“Why should I? Some nights I dream that I can fly, and I race over the snow under starlight. Does that mean anything? I think not. It is a dream, nothing more. There is no sense to it, no logic, only fear.”

“I suppose you know your own mind best.”

“I do.” She said with determination. “I am only afraid, and fear is just a reminder of how much I want to live.”

“What an interesting way of looking at it.” Rhaegar said with a bemused smile.

“It’s just a saying in the North.” she said. _“Fear only reminds us how much we want to live.”_

“So you think it is just natural, then, to dream of your death?” He wondered. It was such a refreshing change. He wondered what his father might have been like, if he had taken such a practical attitude to his own feverish nightmares.

“Why not? It can’t be real. Aside from the bleeding to death part, the rest of the dream is complete nonsense.”

“What kind of nonsense?”

“I’m running somewhere, dressed in a shift, with a black haired babe in my arms and I’m trying to reach someone. My mother, my father, my brothers, it changes. Where I am changes too, sometimes it’s the Wolfswood, and the ground is covered in snow but the trees are all on fire, and sometimes it’s just rocks, a field of rocks, which is very strange. No matter what though, just before I reach whoever I’m running to, I look down at my feet and there is blood running down my legs and pooling on the ground and my flesh turns into wood and I turn into a weirwood tree.”

Rhaegar looked at her with an odd expression. Before he could say anything, she said, “People don’t just turn into trees your highness. It is the terrifying nightmare of a scared little girl who felt her family was falling apart after her mother died. Nothing more.”

“If you say so.” Rhaegar conceded. “But if these dreams are nothing, why are you so reluctant to marry?”

“Because- because I don’t want to!” she snapped. “Robert loves me, or at least the idea of me, and I don’t love him. That’s it. It’d be different if he wasn’t so convinced of my perfection, but he is. Or if I shared in his lovesick delusions, even.” She huffed, blowing a stray hair off her face.

Rhaegar plucked at his harp, picking out a tune. _“If only I loved you, if only if only…”_ he sang, just above a whisper

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I am _singing,_ you wildling!” he laughed. 

“I can see _that_ your highness, I meant _why_ are you singing?”

“Because you are beautiful and you are sad and any girl as beautiful and sad as you deserves a song.” He said it like it was obvious, looking right into her eyes. “Here, help me with the words.” He motioned towards a spot on the ground next to him. She weighed her options, considering the impropriety of sitting alone with a man in the dark, the likelihood of ruining her perfect white dress, the consequences of denying the crown prince’s request. After a moment of consideration, she gave up, figuring that the worst case scenario had her fleeing to Braavos in scandal and she had been seriously considering doing that on her own.

She sat down. 

A gust of wind loosened petals from the branches of the tree and he put his arm around her shoulder. She felt her cheeks flush and hoped he couldn’t see in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos warm my heart and comments are the blood sacrifices that make the sun rise in the morning.
> 
> As of January 6, 2018: some small but key edits have been made, mostly spelling related, but also because I have a much firmer idea of where certain characters are going and what makes sense for them.


	10. In which Ned tries to remember What Happened Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some much needed sibling interactions!

Ned awoke bleary eyed to the sound of insistent tapping at his chamber door, in complete darkness, with an incredibly stale taste in his mouth. Stumbling towards the sound, he stubbed his toe on something hard before he found the door and swung it open. Beaming up at him with entirely too much cheer for this hour, whatever it was, was Benjen, fully dressed, somewhat damp, and with a practice sword in his belt.

“What is it?” he groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to remember what he had been doing before he fell asleep. He had been having such a nice dream…

“You don’t remember Ned? You asked me to wake you up an hour before dawn to spar with the Dornish prince. You said I could come along to watch, and Lya too, she’s still getting dressed.”

And it all came back to him. It hadn’t been a dream after all. Boring, I-swear-you-were-born-an-old-man Ned had met the most lovely woman in all the world and found the courage to ask her to dance. Things only grew stranger from there.

Somehow, he had ended up agreeing to a mind bogglingly early sparring match with a Martell. He suspected that this could be traced back entirely to a pair of captivating violet eyes that made him feel simultaneously fearless and terrified in the most peculiar way. He had never understood Robert’s ability to completely lose his wits over a woman before. Thinking of Lady Ashara, he understood completely.

He would have stayed by her side all night if he could have. She had of course danced with other men, to do anything else would have been entirely improper in this strange southern court, but she had explained this to him, whispering it in his ear so close he could smell her faint perfume. He had blushed then, imagining what her perfect lips would have felt like had she moved just the slightest bit closer.

She had left him first for Oberyn Martell, then for his brother Brandon, then for her brother Ser Arthur. Each time, she returned to him. She danced with Jaimie Lannister, her brother’s former squire, and then with a tall and strikingly red haired man she later identified as Jon Connington, and then with Hoster Tully for good measure.

But in all the dances in between, she danced with him. 

He didn’t understand these people, but it was clear that she did. He watched her move among the lords and ladies with with all the precision and grace of small summer songbirds that picked flying insects right out of the sky. _Swallows,_ he thought. _little shining blue things that fly north by the millions at the height of summer. They have nests on every structure in the North, it seems, and no one disturbs them because they are symbolic of the return of summer and plenty._

_Even Winterfell’s towers have nests. Maester Walys said they spent the winters in Dorne._

Ned hadn’t seen birds like that since before Benjen was born. He guessed, with the oncoming spring, that they would be returning to the North very soon. 

Lost in his thoughts, Ned had been surprised to find Lysa Tully, the younger sister of Brandon’s betrothed, asking him for a dance. Finding himself with no excuse not to, he did his best, and though she was pretty enough, she chattered the entire time, which he found tiresome and confusing. Lady Ashara, seeing him completely at a loss, came to his rescue. 

She had convinced him to go with her as she snuck out of the main hall and went in search of the godswood. They had held hands as they ran through the trees. She just wanted to see a heart tree, she’d said. 

In the darkness, he found himself telling her all manner of foolish things, memories of his home in the North. The way his father would clean their House’s ancestral valyrian blade, Ice, under Winterfell’s heart tree and no other. The way his mother taught him and his siblings songs in the Old Tongue, the speech of the First Men, under its bone white branches. 

He told her about the hot springs there, where he learned to swim, and she told him about the Water Gardens of Dorne, where she played as a child. She told him about the stars in a desert sky, where the air is so perfectly clear and uninterrupted by the lights of towns or cities.

He told her about the northern lights one sometimes saw in the dark of winter, between a break in the storms. They must have talked for hours, but eventually he walked her to her chamber door and bid her goodnight. Just before he passed out, he had asked Ben and Lya to wake him up in time for his match against Prince Oberyn.

Which brought him to the present, where he stood blinking into the torchlight in yesterday’s clothes with a hangover wondering what he had been thinking agreeing to get up this early after such a late night.

He shrugged, and searched for something to more suitable to wear. 

When he emerged from his chamber a few minutes later, he was fully dressed in a loose fitting white linen shirt, grey lambskin breeches, and a knee length gambeson tunic of sturdy grey linen, cinched with a belt, and soft leather boots. It was far too warm to wear anything else, and he needed to be able to move.

Ben and Lya were waiting for him, and Ned was glad to see that she hadn’t procured breeches for herself, but dressed in a demure Northern gown of the softest grey Northern wool, nearly identical in cut to the gown she wore the night before, but with none of the embellishment. 

Where the last night’s dress was an obvious display of wealth through it’s use of imported Braavosi silk and intricate embroidery, this gown was more subtle. Without adornment, there was no distraction from the quality of the cloth itself, which was so soft it could be worn against a noblewoman’s bare skin, and derived its pleasing color not from dyes, but from the very color of the sheep. 

It was clearly another of Father’s machinations, meant to show off the full scope of Northern industry. Yet it was also exactly what it needed to be.

With her face washed and her hair braided in a long black coil that easily reached her hips, she looked every bit the respectable chaperone. 

“Are you finally ready?” asked Lyanna, lips quirked in a teasing smile.

“I think so.” Ned muttered. “I’ve never fought a Dornishman before.”

“And yet here we are.” She grumbled. “Remind me again you dragged me out of bed before the sun to watch your little pissing contest?”

“I did not drag you anywhere Lya. If anyone’s been dragging anyone out of bed it was Ben, which makes me entirely blameless.”

“But you are entirely responsible for the harebrained notion to challenge the Prince of Dorne.” She laughed. “What has gotten into you, brother?”

“One, I did _not_ challenge the Prince of Dorne. He challenged me. This was _not_ my idea. Two, sister dear, what by the gods was I supposed to say in front of the bloody Sword of the Morning and his sister Lady Ashara?”

“Oh it’s _Lady Ashara_ now is it?” she teased. “You know, I think Maege’s heart might just break when she hears you’ve forsaken her for a pretty southron flower.”

“You’re betrothed to Lady Maege?” Ben gasped in complete shock.

“No.” Ned quickly corrected. “She’s nearly twice my age Ben, and she’s married to a bear. Don’t believe a word your sister says.”

“Then why would she be heartbroken?” He asked, wide eyed.

Ned blushed furiously. “When I was quite a bit younger than you, I saw her fight and told Lya I wanted to marry her when I grew up.” He admitted in a grumbling undertone, blushing harder.

Ben gaped at Lya in wonder. “You never told me that!” he complained.

“It doesn’t matter anyways. And Lady Ashara’s not a flower, that’s the Tyrells. Lady Ashara is a star.”

“Oh, she’s a _star_ is she?” Lya said, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “How did you end up meeting all of these exalted people anyways? It’s as if I turned away half a second and suddenly my sweet, soft-spoken brother is conversing with princes and heroes and future queens, and most shocking of all, a pretty girl!”

“I haven’t a clue Lya.” Ned whispered.

“What do you mean, you haven’t a clue?”

“I mean, that I _don’t know._ I think it was an accident at first… but I figured eventually she’d get tired of me or something?” 

“Don’t worry brother, it’s only been a day.” She joked.

Ned felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to keep up my publishing momentum with the new year. More to come as soon as I can put it into some kind of sensible order.
> 
> In a side note: Writing is not my sole artistic medium of communication. I am also a visual artist. And as such, I have illustrations! for this fic! And I've been considering how to include them in the story. Is that a thing anyone is interested in seeing?
> 
> As always, kudos make me smile and comments are the blood sacrifices that make sure the sun rises in the morning.


	11. In which the tension rises within the subplot

Ned was wide awake and quite nervous when he finally found the courtyard where he had left Lady Ashara the night before. It was quiet, empty, and like much of what he had seen of Harrenhal so far, the space seemed at odds with itself. Everywhere one could look, there were charred and melted stones, yet in the three hundred years since its initial burning, the place had been overrun with life. Lush grasses grew in courtyards, moss clung to misshapen stone, and gnarled fruit trees reached towards the light in every courtyard. The mild, early spring weather had coaxed blossoms from those trees, and their delicate petals fell like fragrant snow.

One such courtyard sat directly beneath the tower in which Princess Elia’s entire retinue was staying. It was quite pretty in the stillness of the early morning.

Ned was just beginning to tie himself in knots over not knowing the proper protocol was for an early morning meeting with a future queen’s lady in waiting, when he heard brisk footsteps on the stone steps and Lady Ashara emerged.

Lyanna watched with some amusement as all coherent thought ground to a momentary halt within her dear brother’s mind. 

Lady Dayne met them with a smile as bright as a winter sunrise, in a southern style gown of cloud-like pale purple Dornish silk. Lya watched her, skepticism oozing from every pore, but had to admit that the girl was indeed remarkably good looking. She was short and slim and moved like a dancer, had a wide dimpled smile, and of course, her eyes were something entirely otherworldly. She could see why Ned was tripping over his feet for such a girl, even if she thought he should have better sense than to fall for a pretty face.

The moment passed, and Ned unfroze, executing a precise bow that would have made their mother proud. Lady Ashara matched him with a flawless curtesy. Ned had the oddest little smile on his face, a look Lya had never seen before. 

“Good morning, Lord Eddard.” She spoke.

“Indeed. Yes. It certainly is a good morning my lady. Did you sleep well?”

“I daresay I slept better than most,” she joked, “With the way the wine was flowing last night I imagine many will be waking to quite the hangover.”

Ned snorted. “I’m sure. Now, I think you met my sister Lyanna yesterday, but may I introduce our brother Benjen Stark?”

Ben, bless his heart, _waved_ at her. Realizing his mistake, he blushed and bowed hastily, then stammered, “Is it true your brother is Sir Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?”

“Yes he is. Though I regret to inform you that he shan’t be joining us this morning.” she told him in a conspiratorial fashion, crouching down a bit so that they were on the same level. 

“He’s far too concerned with his Kingsguard duties to spend time with his bothersome little sister.”

Benjen frowned. He deliberated“Then it’s good you’ve decided to come with us. Ned’s going to fight the Prince of Dorne!”

“So I’ve heard!” said Lady Ashara, “Who do you think will win?”

“Well, of course Ned’s going to beat him, he’s the best!” said Benjen, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it was. He had been hearing stories of his big brother  
Ned, who went away to the Vale to learn from real knights, as long as he could remember.

He remembered how proud their father was every time he got a letter from Lord Arryn about the progress his second son had made in his training, how he would gather them all together in his study, and they would sit by the fire to read the packets of letters Ned wrote home.

The thing was, Benjen had been too young when Ned left to really remember him, but his brother had always written to him anyways, and his letters were always full of interesting stories and dry humor, and there were a lot of times when Father was busy and Brandon was horribly full of himself and Lya was so annoying he thought he’d go mad, and the only one in his family he could stand was the brother he’d never met. 

The truth was, Benjen Stark had been looking forward to meeting his long lost brother for as long as he could remember. 

Ned felt a lurching in his stomach, realizing just how easy it would be to disappoint his baby brother, if he could not hold his own in this fight. Since the mere thought of it was distressing, he resolved himself to do his very best.

The small group departed quickly, as the sky was brightening by the minute and it would be rude to be late. 

They made their way to the training grounds, as the castle and the temporary city of tents that had formed around it shook itself into wakefulness by jumps and starts.

Everywhere one cared to look there were industrious smallfolk, servants going about a days work, merchants setting up stalls, stablehands preparing a hundred horses for the days games, cooks preparing meals for workers and highborn guests alike. Yet at the same time, it was ghostly, empty of the idle. 

Within hours, these spaces would fill to bursting with people.

Yet their small party made their way quietly along, and soon found Prince Oberyn, who had found a small practice yard for their use and was clearly excited to meet them all. He was already smiling broadly, and greeted Ned by a firm two handed handshake. He bowed formally to Lyanna, kissing her hand with a flourish, and shook Benjen’s hand as well, with the same enthusiasm that must have been in his nature. 

Lya had to admit, if only to herself, that this strange Dornish prince was quite handsome. Or perhaps he was just charming, it was hard to say. He had good teeth, darkly tanned skin, and she noticed he had nice hands. His bright black eyes and somewhat beaky nose put her in mind of a crow, however, and his playfulness did nothing to lessen this impression.

She didn’t know what such a man might fight like, but she imagined the overall effect would be quite… _bouncy._

Soon enough, the two young men had left to go whack at each other with sticks, leaving the girls, and Benjen, to find a suitable place to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... comments make the sun rise in the morning, I hope y'all didn't mind too much that almost nothing happens in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, it's come to my attention that no one noticed a cameo in one of the earlier chapters, so if anyone's interested, we can make a challenge of it? The first person who correctly guesses in the comments who the cameo was gets the satisfaction of winning and an honorable mention in the next chapter notes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading folks! It would mean a lot to me if you would leave a comment. What did you think?


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